


If There's a Reason I'm Still Alive

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boxing & Fisticuffs, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bellamy's mom dies, he finds a box full of stuff about his father, the boxer Adrian Blake. He's already used to fighting for extra cash, so he figures he might as well try to go pro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If There's a Reason I'm Still Alive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blakesdoitbetter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakesdoitbetter/gifts).



> Caitlin wanted a Creed AU for her birthday, and while I have not seen the movie, I did read the wikipedia article TWICE, so you know. 
> 
> Also I'm delighted there is a "boxing & fisticuffs" tag excellent A++

Bellamy doesn't find out about his father until he's twenty-one, his mother is dead, and he and his sister are going through her things to see what they want to keep and what they'll try to sell. There's a box labeled _Adrian_ in her closet, and when Bellamy looks through it, he sees himself, only not. Darker, hair straighter, but--the family resemblance is obvious and undeniable.

All his mother had ever said about his father was that the man was dead, and Bellamy assumed he was just no one. Some person who had been a part of their lives and then left them. He assumed if there was anything else important to learn about his father, he would have been told already. But Bellamy _knows_ this guy. Mom took him to a match once, when he was four. In retrospect, it was probably kind of violent and inappropriate, but he'd enjoyed himself. He hasn't thought about it in years, but all it takes is one look at the man, and he _knows_. He remembers his mother taking him to meet Adrian Blake after the match, the way the guy's eyes had widened and he'd said--Bellamy doesn't actually remember what he said, but he remembers his mother crying, and he remembers that they never talked about it again. 

"He's got to be my dad, right?" Bellamy asks. He was too young, before, to know how much he'd resemble his father. At twenty-one, it's uncanny, how much they look alike.

"Oh, yeah," says Octavia. "No question. Do you think he'll give us money?"

"I think he's dead," he says, finding the obituary at the top of a folder full of newspaper clippings.

"That sucks," she says. "You'd think with three parents between us, _one_ of them would still be around."

Bellamy cracks a small smile. Octavia's dad died when she was three, which sucked. He was definitely the best of their parental figures. He taught Bellamy how to snap his fingers and throw a punch. It was a bad punch, and he learned better later, but it was the thought that counted. "Well, at least our luck is looking up."

"Did you find some old boxing trophy we can sell on eBay?" 

"No, but--this could be it," he says.

"Could be what?"

"My big break."

Octavia was lying on their mom's bed, but she snaps up at that. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Bellamy has been fighting to make them extra cash ever since he realized it was a more productive use of his anger than picking fights at school. Octavia hates it, is convinced he's going to get his head bashed in one of these days, and he can't disagree with her. Underground MMA shit is dangerous.

But if he's Adonis Blake's kid, he's a _legacy_. He's got a great story, he knows: a poor kid who never knew his dad, fighting illegally to make ends meet for his family, taking care of his sister even before their mom died.

"I could fight for real, O," he says. "Just for a couple years. I'm good, I could make some real money for us, enough to get you--"

"Bullshit. You could get a _real job_ \--"

"I didn't even finish high school," he says. "None of the jobs I can get pay as well as fighting. That's why I do it. But if I could get on the real circuit, go pro--I could do it, O. With this. Just for a year or two."

Octavia works her jaw, but his sister is smart, and she knows he's right. This is their best shot to get something like _comfortable_. 

"It better be," says O, and Bellamy tries not to wince.

"Promise," he says. 

*

The thing is, Bellamy does, just a little, want to be famous and successful. He thinks it's the kind of fantasy a lot of poor, stressed kids have, the fucking Cinderella story, where he finds out he's worth something after all, that he's special. The chosen one.

It's ninety percent about Octavia. It really is. She's his baby sister, has been his responsibility for as long as he can remember, and if being a famous guy's son is enough to give him a shot at the kind of career that can put her through college, he's going to fight for it. So much of it is for her, it _has_ to be okay.

He can want it a little bit for himself too. As long as it's just a little bit.

*

If he'd thought that all he had to do was declare himself Adrian Blake's son and people would fall all over themselves to book him in fights, he's disappointed. He has no proof of his identity, aside from his obvious resemblance to his father, and no formal experience with boxing. No one is interested in booking an unknown kid who's probably Adrian Blake's son, not when there are real boxers with real names they could get.

"What about Jake Griffin?" O suggests.

Bellamy glances at her. He'll say this for his sister: once she's on board with an idea, she's all-in. "Jake Griffin?"

"He and your dad were, like--what's the dude version of frenemies?"

"I dunno, something with bro." He considers. "What would I do with Jake Griffin?"

"Beg him to be your Yoda or something. I dunno. I feel like if you need an in, he's your guy. And apparently you need an in."

"Huh," he says. "That's not actually a terrible idea."

"I'm a literal genius," says O.

"Yeah, yeah. That's why we're going to make the boxing thing work. So you can go to college and save the world."

"College _and_ grad school," she corrects. Then, "You too."

"What about me?"

"You're smart too. If you don't totally destroy your entire brain with the fighting thing, you could go to college." She looks down, worrying her lip. "If you had a coach, you'd probably be less likely to destroy your entire brain, right?"

"That's the idea, I think." He nods, once. "So, did you find out where Jake Griffin lives?"

They don't have much stuff, and even less worth keeping. They sell the furniture and pile everything they care about into Bellamy's shitty car. It's not like either of them has ever liked LA much, anyway. There isn't anything to keep them here, and it's the start of summer, hot as shit, smoggy and miserable.

Boston is hot too, when they get there, and humid, and Bellamy thinks he might be the worst brother of all time, but Octavia seems excited about the change. She's fourteen, about to start high school, and the idea of a fresh start seems to thrill her.

If nothing else, he could be doing worse by her. He could have left her to fall into foster care, just taken the opportunity to get out and left. Plenty of people probably would have.

"I can get a shitty job here as well as I can get one anywhere, right?" he asks O.

"Maybe better," she says. "No one here knows you. Everyone in our old neighborhood knew you were a dipshit."

He puts her in a gentle headlock. "Shut the fuck up."

*

He meets Clarke Griffin before he meets Jake, not that he realizes there's any connection between the two of them at the time. She's instantly noticeable, looking out-of-place at her dad's run-down little diner. She's clean and wholesome, wearing a nice blouse and jeans, working on a laptop, and he's never been good with girls in situations like this. He's never been good with girls like _her_. He knows how to flirt with the girls who show up to street fights, the ones who used to hang out and bum cigarettes from him behind the gym, when he still went to school.

But he can hear music blaring out of her earbuds, and she's listening to "It's Alright, Ma," which isn't his absolute favorite Bob Dylan song, but is certainly up there, and she's _pretty_.

So he slides in across from her on the booth, taps the top of her computer, and says, "Your music is really loud," once she's turned off the music and taken out the earbuds. As opening lines to pretty girls go, it's shitty, and she seems to realize it. She looks supremely unimpressed, and he manages a somewhat sheepish smile. "Good song, though."

Her mouth twitches a little, and she looks around the half-empty diner in a pointed way. "You know there are a lot of free seats, right? And I was here first. You really don't have to sit here."

"I'm not staying."

"That actually makes even less sense. Do you just come into diners, criticize the patrons for their life choices, and wander out? I get that everyone needs a hobby, but wow."

He can't help a soft laugh, and she smiles too. So maybe he could be worse at girls. He leans in close, lowers his voice like he's telling her a secret. "I'm meeting with the boss."

She leans in too. "I can't hear you," she says, just as soft, and taps a device on her ear he hadn't noticed.

"Maybe if your music wasn't so loud, you wouldn't need that," he says, and almost kicks himself, but she lets out a surprised, delighted laugh.

"Wow. You've known me for literally two minutes and you're already explaining to me why I'm going deaf? Usually people don't get comfortable with that for years."

"It turns out I have negative social skills," he says. "I'm supposed to meet the boss," he says, louder. "At two. I'm killing time."

She nods, twirls her earbuds in one hand. "Job interview?"

"Kind of."

"You're kind of a dick," she says, and grins at his expression. "If you're making fun of my medical condition, I'm going to skip ahead in our relationship too."

"Fair enough. What tipped you off?"

"Just tell me what you're doing and stop being cryptic. You're obviously bored and want to share, and for some reason you decided to bother _me_ , so you might as well do it. Since you already interrupted me."

He ducks his head on a smile. "Like I said, it was good song."

"Uh huh." She rests her chin on her hand, regarding him with steady blue eyes. "Come on, spill. I can tell you're dying to."

He is, primarily because he's hoping to impress her, even as he knows he won't. But she's smiling at him now, like she thinks he's a little bit endearing, and he wants to keep that going for as long as he can. "I'm asking him to coach me," he tells her. "The owner."

"Coach you?" she asks, dubious. "Are you trying to start your own diner?"

"He used to be a boxer," he says, and the tension that straightens the girl's posture is so swift and sudden that it's almost comical.

"You want him to coach you in boxing?" she asks. Her voice is calm and cool, but it's such a marked change that her attempt at nonchalance is useless.

"Yeah. Not a fan?"

"Most people go through their lives trying _not_ to get punched. With good reason. Have you ever read statistics on sports injuries?"

"No, but that's just because I know what I'm going to see." He rubs the back of his neck, not sure what to say. "I should have said I wanted to be a waiter, huh?"

"He's retired," she says. "He hasn't fought in years."

"Twenty years," Bellamy supplies. "My sister did the research. He retired the day his daughter was born."

Her mouth twitches. "He did. And you're still coming to beg him to train you?"

Honestly, he should probably just shut up, quit while he was behind. But he really wants her to like him. So instead, he says, "It's a long story."

Her eyes flit down to the corner of her laptop screen, checking the clock. "You've got fifteen minutes. And he's always running late. Tell me."

"He knew my dad," he says. "A lot better than I did." It sounds dramatic, and that's not what he's going for, so he says, "My mom died a few months ago, I found a box of clippings about Adrian Blake, and--he's definitely my dad."

The girl cocks her head at him, considering, and then nods. "Yeah, he definitely is."

"Big boxing fan?"

"Not even a little. Keep going."

"I never knew him as my dad. My mom just said he was dead, when I asked her, and he was. I met him once, she took me to a match. I guess she was trying to convince him to, I dunno. Be a part of our lives. I was four, I didn't know what was happening. But he sent us away, and that was the last I heard of him. But I found the box, and--" He hesitates, but there's no point in starting to lie now. "Honestly, my sister and I need money, and I dropped out of high school. Street fighting paid a lot better than waiting tables, but--I figure I'm Adrian Blake's kid, I could maybe make some money in the ring, and once I've got enough to put her through college, I can figure out something else to do."

"And you need Jake Griffin for that?" she asks, measured.

"I need someone. O--that's my sister, Octavia--she thought he was my best bet. The name isn't enough, but--it's what I've got. Maybe with him, I can start getting some real gigs, bringing in some real money."

She nods, like she's still thinking it over. Before she can say anything, Jake Griffin slides into the booth next to her, puts his arm around her shoulders. "Making friends?" he asks, and does a double-take when he sees Bellamy's face. "Well, you must be my two o'clock," he says. "You really are Adrian's son."

"It's nice to meet you, sir," he says, offering his hand, and Jake shakes.

"I told you he's always late," says the girl. "He was supposed to meet me at 1:30." When he cocks his head, she smiles. "I'm Clarke Griffin. He's my dad. I didn't get your name."

"Bellamy," he says, without any real input from his brain. Clarke Griffin, Jake Griffin's daughter. Twenty years old, not a fan of boxing. It makes sense. "Bellamy Peterson."

Clarke scrunches up her nose. "I'd definitely switch to Blake. Alliteration. Better for publicity."

"Thanks for looking out for my career."

"No problem."

Jake is watching his daughter with interest. "You're telling him how to be a better boxer?"

"A better public figure," she says. "You guys go ahead and talk, I have to get some work in on this paper."

She puts her earbuds back in, at a lower but still audible volume, and Bellamy stares at her for a second before he pushes his focus back to Jake.

"Sorry for interrupting your time with your daughter," he says. "I didn't know."

Jake shakes his head. "No, it's all right. Like she said, I'm running late. If she wanted me to talk to her instead, she wouldn't be shy about letting me know." He leans in a little, face full of wonder. "You really do look like him."

"Lucky for me," he says, with a rueful smile. "Otherwise when I found the box with all the memorabilia, I would have just thought she was a fan."

"You never knew him?"

"No. And she never told me. She passed away recently, I found the box in her closet when we were cleaning it out."

"I'm very sorry to hear it," says Jake, and Bellamy can almost hear the _but_. Before he can be dismissed, he clears his throat.

"It's just me and my little sister now," he says. "I'd been fighting illegally. To support us. Even when my mom was alive, money was tight. If I could make some real money on boxing for a few years--"

"There are other ways to make money."

"Not as much," he says. "Not for me."

"So that's it?" Jake asks, mild. "All about the money?"

Bellamy glances at Clarke, but even if her hearing was perfect, he's pretty sure her music is loud enough she can't hear. "No," he admits, soft. "Not just the money."

For an excruciating moment, Jake just looks at him, and Bellamy schools his features, tries to look like the kind of person who deserves this, deserves a shot, a mentor, a few years of glory and a future.

Finally, Jake nods. "You got another job?"

"Not yet."

"Done any cooking?"

"My mom worked a lot, I did most of the cooking for my sister."

"I need some help in the kitchen. You can work for me until you're up to snuff for the ring." He squeezes Clarke around the shoulders and then kisses her hair. "How about you come over for dinner instead, kiddo?" he asks, once she's taken the earbuds out.

"I've got class until seven."

"I never eat before then, you know that." 

Clarke nods. "Then, yeah, I'll see you around 7:30." Her eyes flick to Bellamy. "You said yes?"

"I said yes. Six a.m. tomorrow," he adds. "That too early for you, Blake?"

"No sir," he says.

"Good. You're working the lunch shift after."

"Yes sir."

Jake snorts. "Just go with Jake. Sir's going to get old."

"Yeah, I wasn't going to remember it," he admits, and Clarke smiles a little. "Where am I going at six a.m. tomorrow?"

"We'll meet here," he says. "Be ready to fight."

"I'm pretty sure he's always ready to fight," Clarke says, before Bellamy can reply. It's not exactly what he would have said, but it's accurate, so he flashes her a smile. Then he remembers she's his mentor's daughter, and probably now off-limits. But she smiles back, and he can't help his tug of warm attraction. He does like her.

"I'll see you tonight, then," Jake tells her, unconcerned. "Tomorrow, Bellamy."

"Looking forward to it." He wets his lips, smiles at Clarke. "Nice to meet you."

"Don't get your brains beaten out," she says, and puts her earbuds back in, but her smile is real and warm, and it's the memory of her expression, even more than the knowledge that he got Jake Griffin on his side, that keeps him feeling bright and hopeful as he walks home.

*

He's been training with Jake for a week when he sees Clarke again, but it's not at her father's diner or at the gym. Instead, he's applying for another job at the little coffee shop around the corner from his and O's place when she sits down next to him and says, "Your references suck."

He glances over at her, smiles. "Thanks. If I had a good job history, I wouldn't be getting punched in the face for a living."

"Touche," she says. "Don't tell me you're already quitting the diner."

"I only work five days a week there."

"You're right, that's not nearly enough."

"Not if I want to eat regularly," he says, and she breaks eye contact, looking embarrassed. He nudges his shoulder against hers. "Don't clam up on me. I'm poor. I'm used to it."

"I just feel like you're going to wear yourself out. Running yourself ragged is a bad idea even when you're not getting paid to fight people."

"It's sweet that you're worried about me," he says. "But I'm used to it."

"Imagine how much better you'd be at boxing if you didn't have to do that, though."

He smirks. "Trust me, _imagine how much better my life would be if I wasn't poor_ is a game every poor kid has played. But if my life is shitty enough, maybe my sister's will be better."

Clarke worries her lip. "My dad says you're not bad," she offers.

"Yeah?"

"A lot of raw talent, you just need to learn how to box, instead of brawl."

"That's the impression I'm getting," he says. "It's been interesting."

"Interesting."

He shrugs one shoulder. "No one ever trained me before. I just got in a lot of fights and didn't want to get my ass kicked, so I made my own rules."

"I never got that."

"You like getting your ass kicked?"

She laughs. "It never came up. Very few people wanted to kick my ass. I didn't have trouble not getting in fights."

"Yeah, well. I was pretty pissed off, most of the time. Brawls are cheaper than therapy."

"You're not pissed off anymore?" She sounds surprised.

Bellamy's surprised himself, as much by the question as by his own answer to it. It's been a long time since anyone asked him about his emotional state; Octavia's the only one who cares, and the two of them don't tend to do a lot of feelings talk. "I'm doing pretty well, honestly," he says. "Things are looking up. I could probably even afford to buy you a coffee."

She pats his arm. "Maybe next time. I'm here for work too."

"You work here?"

"Kind of." She considers for a minute, and then leans in to peck him on the cheek. "You can buy me a coffee after, if you stick around."

She picks up a case he hadn't noticed earlier and weaves her way through the tables, making her way to the stage area in the corner of the shop. He finishes off his application while she tunes the guitar, grabs the closest seat he can to watch her. Her voice is quiet and a little rough, and she sings songs that are, as far as he knows, her own. Not that he's an expert on popular music, but he usually has the radio on at home, and nothing she's singing is familiar.

She's good, really good, and he finds himself watching her hearing aid, wondering what it must be like, to hear her own voice growing more distant.

He's not the only one waiting for her when the set finishes. She has a few CDs out for sale and Bellamy watches as she makes a few sales, chatting easily, her smile politer than he's used to. She doesn't acknowledge him until some girl moves a little closer than seems appropriate, and she steps back and inclines her head to him. When he raises his eyebrows, she nods, just a bit, and he goes to stand with her.

"Good show," he says.

"Thanks." She offers the girl a brittle smile. "Like I said, I've got plans."

The brunette gives him an unimpressed once over; Bellamy ignores her and picks up one of the CDs to examine instead. It's pretty nice, decent production value, and a full fifteen tracks. 

"I only want what's best for you," the brunette says.

Clarke's smile doesn't falter, but her voice is made of steel. "What a coincidence, I want that too. But I'm the one who knows what's best for me. Not you."

"Clarke--"

"I'm not changing my mind. Feel free to come back as much as you want, but don't expect me to give you a different answer." She takes the CD from Bellamy. "You want me to sign it?"

"Obviously," he says. "How much?"

"On the house. You are buying me coffee."

The brunette waits another few seconds, but Clarke has all her focus on Bellamy's CD, so she finally gives up and leaves.

"Thanks for the assist," Clarke says, soft.

"You know, you should speak louder. Some of us don't have great hearing."

That gets her smile, the real one, the one that's all edges. He's really lucky that she likes his shitty sense of humor. "You're a dick," she says, in a clear, firm voice, with perfect enunciation. A few heads turn, and he grins.

"Much better. I'm hungry, you want burgers or something?"

There's a food truck selling cheap kebabs outside, so they grab a few and eat them while they walk. After dark, it's not too hot, and there's a little park nearby that hasn't closed up. He's gotten good at cheap dates.

"You aren't going to ask about the girl?" Clarke asks, once she's finished her food.

"I figured you'd either tell me or I'd just make something up for myself."

"Ex-girlfriend."

"I got that much."

"We were dating when I started losing my hearing. She thought it was a sign that I should give up on music and do something better with my life. Switch my major back to pre-med, get a real future. When I didn't, it turned into this whole thing about all my faults." She counts on her fingers. "Stubborn, spiteful, immature, vindictive--"

"That's a lot to get from not wanting to be a doctor."

"She thinks I just changed my major in the first place because I was mad at my mom. The worst part is, she's all for being stubborn, spiteful, immature, and vindictive about stuff she cares about. When my mom didn't want me to bring her home for Christmas because my bisexuality was _just a phase_ , Lexa was all for being immature and spiteful. But she wanted to be dating a doctor, not a musician, so now I'm being childish." Her smile is a little sheepish. "And you thought rich kids had it easy."

"Now I see where soap operas get it," he teases, but he puts his arm around her, feels the quick rush of relief when she leans into it instead of ducking away. "It sounds like a basically shitty situation. I'm sorry."

"No one's punching me."

"If you want someone to start, I bet I could find some underground fighting for you. You seem scrappy. I'd bet on you."

She laughs, her soft, genuine laugh. "Not tonight, but I'll let you know." She looks up at him, really examining his face. "How is the training going? Really? Do you think it's going to work?"

"I hope so. I assume your dad would tell me if I sucked. Or if he thought he couldn't get me into the ring." He pauses. "He's not going to dump me as a client for taking you out, is he?"

"Would you stop if I said he would?" she asks, sounding curious rather than offended.

"Yeah, I would. I like you a lot, don't get me wrong, but--"

"You need the money."

"I need the money." He pauses, but he figures he might as well be honest with her. He doesn't have much to lose. "And I probably need the fight too. Not, like--it's not what I want to do forever. I don't need to punch people to feel good about myself or anything like that. But I've never really had something for myself."

She's quiet for a minute, but she finally nods. "I get that. That's kind of how it is with music for me. I was always doing what my parents wanted me to do, you know? It wasn't like you, where I was trying to get by, but I didn't feel like I had much of a path of my own." She rests her head on his shoulder. "Boxing is a shitty thing to have, though."

"Thanks."

"I'm just saying, my dad's body is a mess. Your dad died in the ring. That's fucked up."

"I'm not going to die in the ring."

"Everyone probably thinks that."

"I don't think it happens much anymore."

"Did you know you can actually lose your hearing from head trauma?"

"So we'd match."

She laughs. "You have a fucking shitty sense of humor."

"But you keep laughing, so I'm obviously not the only one." He squeezes her shoulder. "Seriously, can I ask you out again, or is your dad going to drop me?"

"He won't drop you."

"Cool. When are you free?"

*

His first official match is a small, local thing, and he gets it almost entirely because of Jake. Clarke says she can't come, because it's too loud and she doesn't want to watch someone punch him, but she gives him a good-luck kiss and agrees to hang out with his sister while he's gone, so he doesn't mind too much.

Jake introduces him to a bunch of his old buddies, all of whom have the same reaction Jake did, the double take and then, "Holy shit, you really are his son." He figures it's a good sign; boxing might not be a huge sport like football or baseball, but none of these guys have forgotten, and Bellamy is exciting, a tough, eager kid from the wrong side of the tracks chomping at the bit to prove himself.

It's nice to know the narrative he was banking on is appealing, even if he needed help to get people to listen to it.

Once he proves himself a capable and engaging fighter in the first match, it gets easier. He manages a fight a week, and the money is good enough he could drop the coffee shop job, if he could convince himself he was really going to have _enough_ money. Clarke and Octavia still look drawn and worried every time he leaves for a fight, but he always comes home in one piece, and he figures that's good enough. At least for a little while. Until he's got some savings built up. He's never had savings before. It's a thrill.

He's been fighting for six months when he gets his first big fight, one that's actually going on Pay-Per-View. It's good money, real money, and two or three of these and he should be all set.

Clarke purses her lips when he tells her, and he frowns. "What?"

"Octavia looked like she was going to cry."

"O gets it," he says, but he feels a little hollow. "We've talked about it."

He can see Clarke's jaw working. "I think you should just do one fight like this."

He gapes at her. " _One_?"

"One."

"This is what I've been training for. This is why I'm doing it. Why would I--"

"I'm going to sound like a fucking oblivious rich asshole, but the money isn't worth it, okay? Not with how fucking scary it is. For your sister and for me."

"I've gotten a couple concussions, it's not--"

"Do you know how bad concussions are? Medically speaking?" She wets her lips. "I know this is--I get that this matters to you. But this isn't the only thing you can do. And I _know you_ , Bellamy. Your passion in life? It's not getting punched in the face. It's nothing like this."

"And what about your dad?" he asks, knowing it's the wrong thing to say. "You think he's happier with his cheap diner and his divorce? He gave up on his career for you and your mom and what does he have instead?"

"A _life_ ," she says. "If he hadn't gotten out, what do you think would have happened? Maybe he would have gotten killed in the ring too." She scrubs her hand over her face. "If I thought--if I really thought it was making you happy, I'd shut up. But at some point, you're going out and getting the shit beat out of you for money. And if that validates you, great. But I bet something else could too." 

"Clarke--"

"You're worth more to your sister than whatever you're making doing this. You're worth more than that to me too."

"I know."

She nods once, presses her lips against his. "So, yeah. I can do this one. But I don't know how many more I can do. The better you get at this, the more you're going to get hurt. That's how it works. And I just--I don't know how to do that. And I think if you thought about it, you wouldn't either."

His mouth feels like sand. "Okay," is all he manages, and she pecks his cheek before she goes.

*

"Do you ever miss it?" he asks Jake the next day.

"No," he says. Of course he doesn't need Bellamy to clarify. "I used to. The first couple years, I had a baby. I didn't have enough energy to miss it. When she started school, that was when I regretted it. I didn't have anything of my own anymore. Abby had her job and Clarke had school, and I was working, but I didn't care about it. It was just filling up time. And then my dad had a stroke, and he needed help at the diner." He shrugs. "I hated working there when I was a kid, but--it was nice, going back. I love it."

"Really?" he can't help asking.

Jake snorts. "I'm not telling _you_ to do that. But it was hard, stopping fighting. And it was hard to replace it." He swings the punching bag back, and Bellamy does a few more sets before he continues, "I assume Clarke wants you to give it up."

"I was amazed she started dating me in the first place," he admits. "It's always--I'm surprised how much she hates it, when you gave it up before she was born."

"It did a number on me," says Jake, easy. "And Clarke knows it. Besides, she remembers your father. We weren't there when he died, but she knew what happened to him."

According to the obituary, Bellamy's dad died when he was eleven, so Clarke would have been ten. It hadn't occurred to him, that they would have known each other. That Clarke would have probably thought of him as--maybe not family, but one of her dad's friends. Someone she cared about. 

"Oh. Yeah. I guess she would." He wets his lips. "You never tried to talk me out of it."

"I think you'll talk yourself out soon enough. Or Clarke will. In the meantime, we've got work to do."

He buys flowers on the way home and realizes that he has enough money to buy flowers without feeling guilty about it, without feeling like he has to justify the cost. He's buying flowers because he has a girlfriend and he wants to show his appreciation of her, and he thinks he can afford it. It's almost staggering to think about.

He calls her when he's outside her apartment and says, "Hey, can I come up?"

When she opens the door, he just looks at her for a long minute, taking her in. She's wearing a tank top and flannel pajama pants, hair pulled back in a messy braid. He wasn't planning to see her tonight, but it feels important.

"Hi," she says. "Were you gonna come in?"

"I have no fucking clue what I'd do with my life if I wasn't scraping for every penny I could get," he says. "I don't know how to stop fighting." Belatedly, he remembers the flowers and shoves them at her. "Also, uh, I got you these."

Clarke lets out a soft laugh. "Nice. You should have led with that."

"I was going to. I kind of forgot."

She nods and steps out of the way. "Come on in. I'll make tea."

He ends up on the couch with his head in her lap, Clarke tracing her fingers delicately over his skull, looking for sore spots like it's her job. It would be nice if, at some point in the future, she couldn't find any.

"So, minor existential crisis," she says. "My fault?"

"I don't think you can take all the credit. A lot's on my parents. But you were a factor." He rubs his face. "I don't have any marketable skills. I'm a decent cook and I haven't murdered any customers in my customer service jobs. None of that is--the most money I can make is doing this. I'm not even good at any real sports."

"Those aren't actually a lot safer. You know how many concussions serious soccer players get?"

Bellamy snorts. "Was every pre-med class you took about sports medicine?"

"Not quite." She leans down to press her lips against his forehead. "You're smart. You're competent. You like reading."

"Do they pay you for that now?"

"I'm not going to say you can do anything you want. That's bullshit. There are all sorts of unrealistic career goals. But you're dedicated and you're capable and you're hardworking. You could do a lot of things that don't involve anyone punching you in the face."

"Just the kidneys?"

"The more people punch you in the kidneys, the less they'll be worth on the black market," Clarke points out. She cards her hand through his hair. "How much are you making off this Pay-Per-View fight?"

"Enough I feel guilty about it. That money could be going to funding schools or something."

"So take a break and figure out what makes you happy. You can keep training with my dad, in case you decide you want to get punched again in the future. But Octavia's going to be fine. You're going to take care of her. Just because you haven't made enough money in the last six months to put her through four years of college without any loans doesn't mean anything." She grins. "She's fourteen, you have four years to come up with a better get-rich-quick scheme."

He closes his eyes, counts to three, and says, "I need to win."

"Win what?"

"If I don't win the fight, I'm going to do another one. Because--I need this. I need to know I'm doing something right."

"You're doing everything right, you fucking dumbass," says Clarke, but it's all affection. "And you're going to win."

"Yeah, I hope so." He wets his lips. "And once I do, I'll quit."

*

"What do you think I'd do if I wasn't fighting?" he asks Octavia.

"Just sit around on the couch in your boxers all day," she says, not looking up from her book. "Rest on your laurels. Get fat and gross."

"Thanks."

"You'd pick up like five part-time jobs because you hate not doing anything, duh. Are you retiring? You should retire. Clarke gave me a book about athletic injuries."

"Jesus. Of course she did."

"You should see what a concussion looks like."

"I'm going to win one major match," he says. "Televised. Live up to the legacy of my father or whatever. Accomplish something. And then I'm going to do something else. I haven't figured out what yet. I'm open to suggestions."

"Really?" she asks, jerking up so quickly he's afraid _she'll_ hurt herself. "Seriously, Bell?"

"Seriously," he says. "You might have to go to a state school, so don't get too--"

She throws herself into his arms, and he catches her, feels a lump in his throat that she's this happy he's thinking about giving it up.

"I thought you were okay with it," he says. "You were the one who found Jake."

"I thought he'd say no."

"Well, I'm going to be getting fat on the couch until I figure out something else to do," he says, ruffling her hair. "So don't get too excited yet."

*

He doesn't get a clean win; it's a tie, but it feels like an accomplishment. Like respect. Like someone finally looking at him and saying he's done enough, that he's fought and won and survived.

"I would have just said that, if you asked," Clarke tells him after. "So would Octavia. My dad. You could have paid someone to say it. There were so many options that didn't involve getting repeatedly punched on live TV."

"I love you," he says, mostly so if she doesn't want to hear it, he can blame it on the head injury. 

"I didn't hear you. Too quiet. My hearing aid must be acting up. One more time, louder."

He laughs. "Never mind, I take it back." He leans his head against her shoulder. "I have absolutely no plans tomorrow. Nothing. No work. No practice."

"Octavia's right. You're going to go get like five new jobs so you don't have free time."

"I was thinking we'd just make out all day. Until I come up with something else I want to do more."

Clarke laughs. "That could take a while. Not to brag, but I'm really good at making out."

Bellamy lets out a breath, lets himself think about tomorrow, and the next day. About making enough money working for Jake and picking up another part-time job that he can just save all his winnings, maybe invest them or whatever it is people who have money do to turn it into more money.

Maybe they could afford a pet or something. If they wanted one.

"It can take a while," he says. "I don't mind waiting."


End file.
